


Hear Me Roar

by JeanZedlav



Series: Love is Not a Victory March [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Forced Marriage, Minor Canonical Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pairings and characters in no particular order, Ramsay is his own warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanZedlav/pseuds/JeanZedlav
Summary: "My mother." It was all Sansa had said. "I want my mother."Lady Sansa Stark of Casterly Rock is the last of Eddard Stark's trueborn children and it falls to her to pick up the pieces of Winterfell.





	1. Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Kings Landing she was wife to Ser Jaime, her traitor's blood covered in a lion's skin. The Riverlands had no lost love for Lannisters, but she was Catelyn's daughter and the Young Wolf's sister. As ever changing as the river, Sansa Stark would survive.

**I.**

As they came upon the final ford Riverrun could be seen in the distance.

It rose out of the waters it was so deeply embedded in, bright and beautiful. Tully banners were flown from its walls, and Sansa stopped to look. They were the first things she remembered from the journey so long ago. Her uncle and his family were within, and if they were lucky, if she was smart, perhaps more men could accompany them.

Beside Sansa, Obella drew up her sand steed to speak to Roslin, “you were born north of here, closer to the Neck, is that right?”

“At the Twins, yes,” she agreed quietly. Roslin had insisted upon joining Sansa on the journey, but the further they ventured into the Riverlands the quieter she had become. While she had not feared the fords, driving her mare through without pause, she had stayed close to Sansa.

“How do you live here year round? It’s summer and freezing.” 

“It is an hour after sunrise and we just crossed a ford,” Jeyne answered for her friend. Unlike Roslin, every step northward had made Jeyne brighter and bolder. Sansa wondered if she should speak to Lord Tywin about Jeyne staying in the North where she would be happy. Someone should be happy. 

“By mid-day it will be warm enough even for you,” Sansa agreed. 

“I doubt it. You said it might be too cold for my mare in the North. I think it is too cold here.” At least Obella would admit when she was wrong. Sansa had told her that she would have to leave her mare at Riverrun and the Dornishwoman had scoffed. Now she would be glad of the gelding that Sansa had gifted her before they left Kings Landing. 

Obella stood in her saddle to look at the men still crossing. The sight of them made Sansa feel powerful, for it had been her recommendation to bring an army and Lord Tywin had listened. Lord Bolton could call five thousand men from his lands alone, more if he was desperate and near his lands. This force of ten thousand Lannister men would be a match for most of the North, she was told, and although it hurt to know her brother had suffered so many losses Sansa knew it was a good thing now. Many of her father’s bannermen would flock to her if she called and if half of them rallied to her then the Lannisters would overrun the Boltons easily. Sansa wanted her mother. Sansa would have her mother. If that meant seating Jaime’s son in Winterfell then so be it.

“Lady Sansa!” Daven’s chestnut war horse broke through the stream of men to approach, his golden armor gleaming in the sunlight. “Lord Tywin requests you at the front.”

It was not quite the front, more the opposite side of the men, but Sansa offered no argument. While they waited for the wagons to cross some of the army had stalled so as not to leave them unguarded. The men continued on, but Lord Tywin and his generals had formed a group on the side and clustered there. It would be hours yet before they arrived in Riverrun, and he could afford to take a moment to speak with his generals. None had bothered to dismount, and although they were arguing among themselves as she rode up they quickly fell silent. When Sansa rode close to Lord Tywin’s mare he turned to her.

“You will ride at the head of the column alongside myself and Jaime. Lord Tully is your blood and you must speak with him.”

Sansa shifted in the saddle, rubbing the leather of her gloves over the reins as she thought. “How many men do we need?” 

“One thousand would do, a token force at least. Two would be better.”

The Riverlands had been destroyed by the Lannisters, but Sansa knew that the Tullys would want her mother as much as she did. “I will get us men, my lord. Do we intend to live on the Tullys’ hospitality?”

“For a few days, no more,” he answered. 

“That may hinder the men we can get from him. The Lannisters destroyed the Riverlands.”

More than one general seemed alarmed at her bluntness, but Lord Tywin only turned to one of the knights lingering on the outskirts of their group. “Yes, I had nearly forgotten. Ser Justyn! Have the banners unfurled for our arrival.”

While the man fumbled with his horn, Sansa turned her mare to look at the army in confusion. Already Lannisters banners decorated the men, here and there among their ranks, how many more could be expected? Too many would hinder their fighting ability. The bright call of the horn sounded to her left and a great number of standards went up. It seemed they had been carrying them all along. 

Then the flags caught on the breeze and Sansa could feel her heart in her throat. For every three roaring lions was one white wolf. Sansa felt tears brush her eyes and she pushed them back. She must not cry in front of the lords, she must be strong for the sake of her mother, for the sake of Winterfell. As they came into Riverrun the castle would know that Lady Stark came to seek their aid. 

She swallowed hard, forced down the sob in her voice, aware that Tywin was waiting for a reply. “Very wise, my lord. My uncle will give us men to find my brother’s wife and babe that he would not have given to the Lannisters.”

“If he can declare the Young Wolf king, he can help find his heir,” Tywin agreed. “Daven will ride with you.”

As they rode across the bridge and into the courtyard Sansa caught her first glimpse of Edmure. It seemed as if it had been ages since she had been here, but he looked so much like her lady mother that it was unmistakable. The man beside him with darker red hair must be his uncle, Ser Brynden. Lady Rhialta stood beside him, curls of red hair cascading down her back, and a babe in her arms. 

Sansa dismounted without waiting for Daven’s aid and lifted her head as she walked toward them. Ser Brynden stared at her as though she were a lion in wolf’s clothing in her blue dress with golden embroidery, but Lord Edmure took a step forward and reached for her hand. Sansa stepped around it and closed the distance and hugged him. When her uncle’s arms closed around her he breathed into her hair, “we’ve seen your sister.”

She wanted to scream and cry and demand to know. “Tell Tywin nothing.”

Then she pulled away to hug his wife too, an amused Riverland woman who was four years her senior, but reminded Sansa of her younger self. “Lady L-Stark. We are honored to have you here.”

Lady Rhialta’s eyes were brown, but when Sansa looked down at the babe in her arms her eyes were blue. “Thank you for having us. This is Camilla?”

“Yes, our little heiress.”

“How old is she?”

“Nine months,” she smiled, and Sansa could see no lie in her face. It was refreshing. She hoped for the little girl’s sake that Edmure had a son soon. Else she might be sent to the Rock in place of a brother.

“My Jerion is fifteen months,” she said, wondering if Tywin meant to marry one of her daughters, or perhaps Janei, to Edmure’s eldest son. 

When she turned back to the men they were staring at each other over pleasant greeting and a discussion of the river, of all things. “Your daughter is beautiful, uncle.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Edmure said. His smile was forced, but less unsettling than Cersei’s true smiles. “I have rooms prepared, you must be tired. Please, come inside.”

Sansa did as she was bidden, lingering at Lady Rhialta’s side as Desmera did at her own. The Redwyne girl had neither Margaery’s boldness nor Ysilla’s familiarity, yet remained a presence in every conversation. Sansa admired it. She would mimic it, if she could, as she mimicked Cersei’s roars and Margery’s confidence and her mother’s certainty. Some days she felt more like a mismatch of others than like herself, but the alternative was worse.

Riverrun was beautiful, she found. Her mother had told her of it, but she had never seen it. The rooms they had been given were smaller than those in Casterly Rock, but offered wide windows and a view of the river. Sansa had meant to change out of her traveling clothes and seek an audience with the lady of the castle, but instead she found herself standing at one of the windows overlooking the river. 

Her mother had been born here, in this great white castle which reached into the sky. Riverrun was smaller than Winterfell, well-kept and built to protect the ruling family rather than the surrounding town. In comparison to Casterly Rock it was little more than a hovel, but where the Rock was sweltering and intimidating, it was cool and welcoming. There had been a time when her mother had considered marrying her to Edmure’s heirs, she knew, back before it became clear that he had no interest in heirs.

Myrielle said that Edmure was a good man, if unrealistic about war. That was what they needed, was it not? Men who ruled well in peacetime. The world needed more Edmure’s and fewer Tywin’s, she thought. That was why she had sacrificed to the Northern gods for Jerion’s sake, praying that he would be as honorable as her father and as skilled as Jaime. She wanted little of Tywin in her son.

Eventually Sansa left the windows to search through her trunk. In the rush to leave Kings Landing she had little to chose from; most of what she had brought had been red and gold, colors to establish her as Jaime’s wife. Now she needed grey and white and blue, colors for Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully. Colors for a Northern girl, for Ned Stark’s daughter, for King Robb’s sister; colors for a girl with Catelyn’s hair and eyes and high cheekbones.

The dress she chose was all of those, a glorious light blue in the style of the North, embroidered with white. Nervous Roslin helped her into it, the normally outgoing girl had chosen a cream dress in the style of the Westerlands. Sansa closed her hands around one of Roslin's shaking ones and promised that no one would harm her out of their hatred of Freys.

Jeyne brought her jewelry. There were no lions to be found here, no rubies and no gold. She chose silver with white gems instead, the hair net Jaime had given her, the necklace that Margaery found in the markets, and let her hair fall loose around her. Jeyne's hands were smooth as she brushed her hair, and when that was done she went to find Roslin. They had becomes friends during their time with Sansa, and Jeyne was only returning the kindness Roslin had shown her.

As they were gone, Obella helped her slide on doe skin slippers and adjusted her hair net to make sure it was straight. The Dornish girl had worn Martell colors instead of Uller color, and Sansa could not help but wonder if she meant them to be her shield. Instead of asking, she offered to let her borrow the necklace with a ruby the size of her thumb, and fixed the clasp for her when her fingers slipped.

When they were done, Sansa paused to look in the mirror, to see what the high lords would.

In Kings Landing they would not respect Ned Stark’s daughter. She had to borrow from Tywin’s power there; she wielded her marriage like a dagger, used Jerion as a shield. When she screamed she wrapped Cersei’s temper around her words, knowing they would flinch instinctively. When she wanted to be heard she used the same sharp logic that Tyrion did, and something in her wondered that they listened to her then when they had not before. But the Riverlands had fought and died for her brother. Here it was her father’s legacy she must rely on, her mother’s blood that would be her protection. If they wanted Robb then she would give them his words, his determination, his bravery. If they wanted the Starks then she would remind them that Bran and Rickon did not die to leave a Bolton in Winterfell.

She must use her brother’s murders to carve out her own foothold here. 

 

**II.**

“Are you certain that it was Arya Stark?” Jaime ushered Sansa ahead of him as a man in Tully colors held the door open. The two Lannister guards that had accompanied them stayed close, but Jaime suspected that it was more in hope of protection than because of their duty.

“Am I certain?” Edmure asked, sounding less like a lord than frightened squire. “No. But why would he lie about smuggling a Stark through the Riverlands?”

“An attempt to gain sympathy?” Jaime suggested mildly. They all knew that if Edmure had managed to catch Sansa’s sister with Clegane that the Lannisters would never have heard of either. The girl would have been married to some high lord in secret or smuggled into the Vale. If they could find enough men, they would contest Sansa’s claim and name it Robb Stark’s wish. 

The moment Edmure had told Tywin that he thought he had seen Arya Stark, his father had dismissed it out of hand. His father had no interest in chasing ghosts - and Edmure would never have said anything if he thought the girl was Arya Stark - and he had little interest even in Clegane. If it had been left to Jaime, he would have executed the man for betraying the king at Blackwater, but it was not and Jaime did not think it worth the argument to find out the reasons his father did anything.

Instead he had decided to accompany his wife when she insisted upon seeing the man in Edmure’s cells. Both the Blackfish and his nephew had tried to talk Sansa out of it, but she was having none of that. They all knew that Tywin was the real power here, no matter who owned the castle, and if Sansa wanted to see a prisoner who claimed to have seen her sister than see him she would. The Blackfish seemed to have decided that it was not worth the argument, while Edmure seemed more concerned for Sansa’s welfare. 

He had clearly never met Sansa.

The lordling led them down the stairs into the underground dungeons. Even the stone was damp here, and in the moment Edmure paused at the bottom of the stairs Jaime thought he could hear the river outside, flowing around the walls. Sansa stepped past her uncle into the darkness, and Edmure hurried to lead the way. The torch in his hand filled the darkness between those hung on the wall, illuminating the moss-covered walls and the criminals within the cells. He did not like the way they looked at Sansa, grins and leers as they saw her red hair, yet they must have mistaken her for someone other than Sansa Stark for when they saw him their smiles faded.

Sansa herself did not seem to notice. 

At last they came to a group of cells down a side row, and Edmure approached the cell to the far right, and held the torch out to illuminate the inside.

Within sat a man that could not be mistaken. Even in shackles, he was huge. In the dim light, his long, thin hair shielded his face, only the hooked nose was visible. As Edmure stepped closer to the bars the rest of his face came into the light; the ruin of black flesh with deep red cracks. They had taken his armor from him, leaving him bare-chested, and when Jaime’s eyes followed the chains he found that he was secured to the floor.

He coughed roughly, and when he spoke his voice was a rasp. “What do you want, Tully?”

When he finally looked up he stared at Edmure for a moment, confused. He must have been expecting Ser Brynden, Jaime thought, but after a moment his gaze fixed on Sansa. 

Beside her, Jaime looked away from the cell to speak to their host. “How long has he been here?”

“Three days, no more. Brynden had him sent here after he told us he was traveling with Catelyn’s girl.”

Perhaps Edmure had been right to discourage Sansa from visiting the cells. His little wife was still and silent, staring at the prisoner. Jaime was about to suggest that they return to the castle above when Clegane spoke, his eyes locked on Sansa. “What are  _ you _ doing here?”

“My brother’s babe is dead. I am the Lady of Winterfell now.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, as if saying it made it true. 

“Tywin wanted the North,” he scoffed. A cough rattled through his chest, “and now he has it.”

“The Boltons have my mother.” She told him, bolder. His gaze refocused on her face as she spoke. “They mean to marry her to Roose Bolton. I will not let that happen.”

Edmure studied her as she spoke. He was not a clever man, but he loved his family dearly. All Tullys did, Jaime thought, and that extended to his sister and her children. Sansa took a step closer to the bars, the guards tensing despite the chains on Clegane’s wrists. Jaime could feel the direwolf’s fur brushing his leg. Sword hand or no, guards or not, they were safe here.

“How will you do that, little bird? You are as much a prisoner as she.”

“I am mother to the heir to Casterly Rock.”

“You are only here because Tywin allowed it.”

“I am here because I convinced Lord Tywin that he needed me,” Sansa drew herself up. She was as tall as her uncle, Jaime found, and her red hair was fire in the torchlight. “I am here because I can save my mother... I will save you too, if you will let me.”

“Save me?” The sound that rattled through his chest might have been a laugh, but it turned into a violent coughing fit. Whatever injuries he had taken in battle, the damp dungeon had only made it worse. “You cannot save me.”

“Be my sworn shield.” Sansa answered his doubt with vehemence. “Swear to me. We have a maester to heal your wounds; we have armor and swords and horses.”

“Father will not be pleased,” Jaime warned. “Clegane abandoned his post the night of the Battle for Blackwater, he is a wanted man.”

Even so, it seemed that Sansa had some interaction with this man in Kings Landing that went beyond her normal treatment of the Kingsguard. She avoided even the newest members, those who had never been Joffrey’s. What had happened with this man who was not even a knight? 

“He was a wanted man.” Sansa said.

“Clegane is a traitor.”

“So was my brother. Sandor was one of Robb’s men, and all of Robb’s men were pardoned.” Sansa looked up at him, an unusual fierceness in her voice. “Leave Lord Tywin to me.”

Jaime had to smile at that. The wilting girl Tywin had given him to wife had turned into a lioness. “I have no personal objection.”

“Uncle,” Sansa turned to the uncertain Tully on her other side, “will you free him?”

“He kidnapped your sister!”

“You said the girl was not Arya.” She reminded him. Edmure’s eyes drifted from Sansa to Jaime and back again. Jaime pretended he had not noticed for the sake of his wife. “No one has ever made Arya do anything she did not want to do. Not even mother. Uncle, if it was Arya with him then he is the only one who can help find her.”

“I never thought I would agree with Jaime Lannister, but he speaks the truth. Clegane is a traitor to the Lannisters and to the Starks.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Jaime noted. Both of them ignored him.

Sansa paused, paling in the torchlight, then lifted her chin to look her uncle in the face. Framed as they were, Edmure looked more like Sansa’s brother than Robb Stark had. “After father died in Kings Landing I was not treated as a noble hostage. The king had his Kingsguard strip me in front of the court. They struck me in full armor. King Joffrey threatened to kill me with a crossbow. He beat me, uncle. With a whip. In front of the entire court. Not once did the noble knights of the Kingsguard protest. No one except Sandor spoke in my defense. No one else helped me. No one.”

While Edmure was trying to reconcile the horror of this statement with the delicate woman in front of him, Sansa reached up to the top of her dress and tugged the neckline to the side to reveal the thin white scar from the whip. “Sansa, I- I apologize. We did not know.”

“It is not your fault, uncle.”

“I would blame Robb Stark, myself.” Jaime mused. The young wolf should have traded him for Sansa when he had the chance.

“Jaime, hush!” Sansa snapped. 

Jaime did, and Edmure might have laughed at that if he was not still processing Sansa’s words. “Cat will be so proud of you.”

“For what?”

“For living,” Jaime said, when Edmure hesitated.

“You were very brave.” the Tully lord agreed. 

“I was not brave, uncle. I only did what I must to survive.”

Edmure nodded at that, as if the information had not yet had a chance to sink in fully.“If you want Clegane, you can have him.”

Sansa smiled at that, pleased, and turned to the prisoner, who had watched the byplay in resigned silence. “What about you?”

“You need Tywin’s _permission_. Go and ask him.”

“I asked you.” Sansa replied, undeterred. His wife was kinder than he, he would have left him to rot in that cell. Cersei would have had him hanged. Jaime blinked the thought of Cersei away and decided that Sansa was kinder than most of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Do I look like I have a sword, girl?” The Hound growled.

“I was not aware you placed such importance on tradition.”

The Hound climbed to his feet with a stiffness Jaime knew too well. It had been his own on his escape from the Stark armies. Clearly he had not fallen easily. Favoring his left side, he pried himself off of the ground and staggered to the bars to glare down at Sansa.  “What kind of fool do you take me for?”

“One who doesn’t know that sworn shields swear.” It took Jaime a moment to realize that she was joking, that the smile at the corner of her lips was formed from laughter.

Clegane grumbled and coughed, cursed under his breath, wrapped one arm under his ribcage, and knelt. “I will be your liege man, little bird. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the gods - the old and the new."

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise." The Hound tried, then fell, and Sansa knelt on the damp stone floors to reach a hand between the bars of his cell and press a hand to his shoulder. “How badly are you hurt?”

Edmure looked down at his niece as if he had never seen anyone concerned over injuries before, then up at Jaime, as if he expected him to pull Sansa up. Jaime, however, had learned that Sansa generally had a reason to do the things she did. When the lordling gave him an owlish stare, he looked back to the guards. Clegane was no knight, but what did it matter what he was called. Arthur Dayne had stood outside of Queen Rhaella's chambers while she screamed. 

“Do you have keys for this cell?”

 

**III.**

Her uncle’s solar was beautiful.

Sansa sought Edmure after dinner, when Tywin had gone to discuss the movement of ships with Lord Redwyne in the camp. The corridor for the rooms the Lannisters had been given was swarming with guards, it was simply the matter of asking one to take her to her uncle. She had not meant to frighten the guard, Lady had done that for her, but he was willing to escort her through the maze of halls and that was enough for her. A year in the Rock and she was still confused by most of it, she did not dare traverse Riverrun alone when she had been here a day.

While the guard stammered an explanation for their arrival, she smoothed her blue skirts down and looked up at the glass ceiling and wondered which Tully lord had designed and installed it. Edmure and Ser Brynden looked at each other across the table and dismissed the guard. Once the door had closed behind him, Sansa slipped into the fourth chair at the table, smiling politely at the man she had presumed to be a guard earlier. 

“I do not believe we have met, Ser?” Lady lay at her side. Sansa had tried to teach her to be non-threatening, but a wolf as large as a man can only do so much.

“I am not a knight. My name is Nakoros Maegyr.” He considered her calmly, and if Lady frightened him he did not show it.

“Is that a Westerosi house?”

“No, princess,” he answered gently, “I was born in Volantis.”

Sansa took the decanter of wine from the center of the table as she studied him. His hair was long and black, his skin darker than most Westerosi, but something in his face spoke of nobility. All of him was narrow, from his body to the features of his face; his nose and lips were long and thin, his chin pointed and clefted. This was not a man who should be in the private counsel of the Tullys. She said none of that. “You should not call me princess.”

“Your brother was a king.”

“Robb renounced his title. Do you not remember? I do. He married me to a Lannister to seal the peace.”

Ser Brynden shifted in his seat, glowering. “We went to war to save you and your sister.”

“You went to war because Joffrey murdered my father. Do you take me for a fool, uncle? ” Sansa answered with all the bottled fury that she had hidden under courtesies for months upon months. “Robb captured Jaime, and I remained in Kings Landing. Do you know what Tywin would have given up for Jaime? He would have given you my father if he still had him; he would have given up the useless little girl who Joffrey only kept alive to torment!”

“We were fighting a war.” 

“For what? A crown? What happened to  _ Family _ , Duty, Honor?” When no one had an answer for her fury, for the tears building in her eyes, Sansa reached for the glass of wine she had poured and drank deeply. Edmure looked like a struck dog, Ser Brynden and the Volantene man stared at each other, and Sansa forced down the hurt until she could breathe again.

“I need men.”

“Tywin needs men, you mean.” Ser Brynden replied. Sansa did not scoff the way she wanted to. The Riverlands had lost over half of their forces, and had fewer than the Lannisters to begin. 

“No. I need men, because Roose Bolton intends to force my mother to marry him. I will not let that happen.”

“Do you not understand what is happening, girl?” Brynden demanded. “Tywin intends to take Winterfell for his own family. He will-”

Nakoros interjected softly. When he spoke, her uncle stopped, and Sansa found that she understood many things now. “He will use you to take the North.”

“You think I do not know that? I have managed to impress upon him the need for my son to be raised in Winterfell, with a Northern castellan who is not a Bolton. There is little else I can do.”

“You have a duty to stop him.” Edmure blustered from his side of the table.

“I have to save my mother.” Sansa answered, and Edmure could not meet her gaze. “I could not save myself, but I can save her.”

“You seem well enough to me.” Brynden snarled.

“My husband’s son murdered my father.” Sansa had not meant to say it, but there it was. The men were suddenly silent, but she found she could not stop. “Then he tortured me until I wanted to kill myself. When there was finally peace I prayed to go home, but instead my own brother married me to a man whose House helped murder our father. You do not get to judge my actions, uncle. What I did to survive is no one’s business save my own.”

“Your brother tried, Sansa.” Edmure said, when the silence became too heavy to bear. “He missed you dearly.”

_ He should have tried harder. _

“It does not matter now. Nothing matters, save mother. She will not suffer the same fate I did, I will not allow it. If that means trading Winterfell to Tywin Lannister, so be it.”

“Do you think the Northerners will support you seating a Lannister in their midst?” She had no doubt of it. The North was not the south, her father’s bannermen would not betray the Starks so easily as these southron men did. Yet that was not important now. Living with lions had given her good ears: Ser Brynden’s voice had lost some of it’s venom. 

Sansa knew why. Tywin had bent for the promise of a grandson in Winterfell, and the Tullys would for Catelyn. She was Edmure’s beloved older sister. If Roslin’s mother was to be believed then she had served as his mother after Minisa Whent died in childbirth. She was Brynden’s favorite niece. Lady Lysa had told Ysilla’s mother so. There had been no surprise when he left the Vale to rally to her son’s cause. Riverrun loved her. She was a daughter of the Riverlands, and she had once been its heir. Sansa had not come to her mother’s family unprepared.

“That is why I need the men, dear uncle.”

“The Riverlands have few enough men as it is. We also have little food and little gold. Because the Lannisters decided to burn our fields and raid our lands and invade our castles.”

“How many men did you raise for my brother?”

“How many men died because of the Lannisters?” Ser Brynden demanded.

“I am not asking for an army, uncle.” He understood, she knew. Edmure had chosen a good advisor. “I am asking for enough men to display the alliance between the Starks and the Tullys. Enough men to prove that Lady Catelyn’s liege lord disapproves of her forced marriage to a Bolton.”

“Every man that takes up a sword is a man who is not in the fields.” Edmure added.

Sansa managed a smile at that. “Is it grain you need, uncle?”

“Winter is coming.” Ser Brynden said.

“Give me five thousand men, and I will write to Queen Margaery. The Reach is rich in food, and at my bidding the queen will send wagon loads of grain up the River Road. Enough to last until the autumn harvests can provide.” Sansa leveled her jaw to look at her uncles, both too surprised to answer her. They thought she came begging at their door, Lannisters in tow, and offered them nothing. She was not the same stupid girl she had been when she first came down the Kings Road. “What say you?”

Sansa would never be unprepared again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter! Yay! If anyone hasn't read the prequel, I would recommend it, but this can be read as a stand alone if you're willing to run with what's introduced. I hope no one minds the formatting. I'm trying to keep it fairly contained in order to finish it in a timely manner.
> 
> Expect a bit of a delay between the chapters of this, as I'm finishing up the plotline for the overarching story.


	2. The Wolf and the Lion

I.

Stupid, stubborn, horse-faced bitch.

When Brienne of Tarth had first ridden through the gates of Riverrun and demanded to see Sansa, the guards had almost laughed her out of the castle. Yet she had pressed on with a firm insistence that she knew Lady Catelyn. Jaime had only stepped in because it looked like it would come to swords, and if this woman did know Sansa’s mother than Sansa would want to see her.

How exactly that saw him given a horse and a hundred men to ride to the Vale was beyond Jaime entirely. It was Sansa’s doing, he knew. She had been the one to convince Lord Tywin that someone must go to see why the letter to the Vale had not been answered. He did not know why it had to be him specifically, but few men won an argument with Tywin Lannister. Sansa - being a woman - was apparently an exception. 

As their horses trotted through the fields, Jaime found himself glancing over to the woman by his side. She was flat-chested and well muscled, as she had been the first time Jaime met her. She still looked more like a cow than a highborn lady of Tarth. At her belt she carried a longsword and a dagger, but he doubted she knew how to use them properly. Even so, she spoke truth when she said she was Catelyn’s sworn shield.

“Why are you staring at me, Kingslayer?”

“I was admiring your horse, wench.”

“You will call me Brienne. Not wench.” 

“My name is Ser Jaime. Not Kingslayer.” 

“Do you deny that you slew a king?” 

“No. Do you deny your sex? If so, unlace those breeches and show me.”

Behind them the men snickered and the woman’s face turned red. She should have stayed in Riverrun to guard Sansa on the journey North, but she had insisted upon filling her vow to her lady by finding Arya Stark. Tywin had cared little for her honor, yet they needed to get the Stark girl. If she married the likes of Robert Arryn she could threaten Sansa’s claim. The North would sooner rally for a younger daughter wed to an old, honorable house than an elder daughter wed to a Lannister.

“I am here to find Lady Catelyn’s daughter. Not to argue with the likes of you.” 

"Tell me, wench, are all the women on Tarth as homely as you? I pity the men, if so. Perhaps they do not know what real women look like, living on a dreary mountain in the sea."

"Tarth is beautiful. The Sapphire Isle, it's called.”As she slowed her horse to walk farther away, Jaime laughed at her.

“Best stay near, woman. The Mountains of the Moon are dangerous to traverse.” He was only half joking. Jaime had wanted to travel with more men, but his father had refused him. They needed every sword if they should have a fight at Moat Cailin and Tywin feared that if too large a force arrived at Lady Arryn’s gates she would keep them closed.

“Do not trouble yourself, Kingslayer.” She replied. “If we are attacked I am certain that your men will defend you.”

 

**II.**

Lady Rhialta had a sweet smile. 

She also had a gaggle of ladies to match Sansa’s own, and less political sense than Sansa might have hoped. That was not to say that her good aunt had no political sense, she was the daughter of a high lord, but she limited herself to the feminine realm: fostering, marriages, gossip, gifts, and trading. Had Sansa not been anxious to be off, she might have sat with her and pretended that this was her life as well.

The twenty-seven year old Jonna Mallister was Rhialta’s dearest friend, having been married to her cousin once, and she seemed more interested in the happenings of the Rock than Rhialta herself. Sansa could not help but wonder if she was Rhialta’s Myrielle, or her brother’s. Jessa Ryger was sister to one of Edmure’s close friends, but she had a sharp wit and an infectious laugh, and wanted to braid Lady’s tail with ribbons. Sansa could see while Rhialta liked her.

Bethany Blackwood was one-and-ten and Jayne Bracken fourteen, but they traded barbs at each other over lunches and sewing and in the halls, until Rhialta despaired of them. Sansa knew that Edmure - or perhaps, Ser Brynden - was trying to make a match between Jayne and the Bracken heir, but she doubted it would be a warm marriage even if it was made. Eleanor Mooton was the only one able to soothe tensions between them, and then only for a time. 

It had not escaped Sansa’s notice that, despite the Freys Edmure was marrying off to any second son he could find, there were none among his wife’s ladies-in-waiting. The closest was Marianne Vance, whose mother had been a Frey. Nor did the stares that they directed at Roslin slip by. Still, they were guests here, so she held her tongue so long as they returned her kindness. 

Riverrun was warm and bright, cooler than the Rock but not the North by any means. Sansa found herself enjoying walking among the Lannister camp in the mornings, and had begun to seek out excuses to do so. It must have been a wonderful place to grow up, but she felt as if the walls had ears, and with Brynden Blackfish in charge of the castle, she might not be wrong. 

At Jaime’s bidding she took a guard with her everywhere, although she doubted he had meant only Sandor when he had asked it of her. Knight had taken an instant liking to the man, often tagging along behind him when he could not accompany Sansa. Sandor claimed that it was only because the lion smelt the Westerlands on him, and Sansa had been kind enough not to laugh in his face. Lady still prefered to follow Jaime about, but at least the two had broken up. Edmure’s servants were frightened of the creatures, and the two of them together were apt to play and look more ferocious than they were. 

When they reached the wagon, Sansa climbed inside to sort through the trunks left there. It took it a few days to catch up to the advance party, but she would be glad of it when they reached Winterfell. She had just found the Tully-blue gown she had been looking for when Sandor spoke.

“It was your sister.”

“Who had you captured?” He shifted where he leaned against the opening of the wagon, frowning at her.

“No. Well, yes. But that I was traveling with.”

“I know,” she answered, as she turned to set the gown on another trunk, where it would not be in the way while she dug further. 

“She said she was going to the Rock.” 

“Was she?”

“I was taking her to the Rock.” He said, after considering, “We had set up camp east of the Kingsroad that last night, hadn’t rode a half hour from it when we encountered the Tully men. Told her to keep quiet so we could wait them out and she shrieked and drove her horse straight through them.” 

Sansa considered that. Her little sister knew how to hide, else she would have been dead before she made it out of Kings Landing. She knew how to avoid soldiers, or she would have been caught by Lannister men in the Riverlands. She knew how to survive, or she would never have made it back to mother.

“Why would she want you captured?” Sansa mused, as she found one of the slippers she sought. “Where else could she go?”

“The Vale.”

“Not the Vale. Aunt Lysa did not join the war, why would Arya go there?”

Sandor paused, considered, and lowered his voice. “Riverrun.”

“If she was here, why would Edmure admit to having you at all?” 

“There were a lot of men who saw what I did, a little girl driving her mount through them and past. She outran them, but they still saw her. It’s hard to keep that word from spreading. Maybe the Blackfish wanted to get ahead of it.” Sandor grumbled. “Or maybe he thought I’d kidnapped her again and wanted help finding her.”

“You said she did not want to marry a Bolton.”

“She has to marry someone, and a Bolton’s better than most. Better than whoever Cersei would have married her to. Why would the Blackfish believe that she ran away with the Lannister’s Hound rather than that he stole her?”

Sansa remembered the letter she had found in Tyrion’s desk, in Tywin’s handwriting, buried deep under reports that few would bother to look at. If Tywin ever found out that it was not just her mother’s words that made her fear what Lord Roose would do, he would be furious with Tyrion. She collected the gown she had come for and handed it to Sandor, who stared at it. “Will you hold this?”

“You came all the way out here in the rain to find a dress?” He scoffed at her, but Sansa had brought something to keep it dry and warm, so she merely climbed from the wagon to sand beside him and gathered it from his arms again.

“A blue dress.”

“I didn’t realize.” He scoffed.

When she looked up at him, he was glaring at her. “If I wear red to the Tully’s feast, what will that remind them of, Sandor?”

He smirked at that, “your beloved Jaime would be pleased.”

“Edmure would not. He does not need a reminder that I am a Lannister. If I rode to Winterfell in red and gold, they might keep the gates closed to me, but if I arrive with a direwolf at my side, dressed in the grey of House Stark with a white wolf emblazoned behind me then I am not Sansa, wife to Jaime. I am Sansa of the North, daughter of Lord Eddard, the blood of Winterfell. And if I dance with my uncles in Tully blue, then I am Lady Catelyn’s daughter and King Robb’s sister, a girl they once named princess.” Sansa finished bundling the dress away and reached to pick up the bag.

Sandor reached over her and lifted it with one hand. “If you want to be a trout, you must wear blue. As you wish, little bird.”

“You should not call me that. Lord Tywin will not like it.”

Sandor made a noise that might have been a laugh. “I shall call you ‘little fish’ instead. It will help your case with the Blackfish.”

Her fit of giggles lasted back to the castle.

 

**III.**

“We can camp here,” Jaime drew his horse up when they neared the rising mountainside. This was the last bit of flat land before the trail became too narrow to go on. If the gods were good to them they could cross the mountains within a fortnight. 

“Is that wise?” The wrench asked, as the men began to advance into the clearing, They had a few tents and enough space for most of them. 

“No, it is not,” Jaime agreed quickly. “The road is wild and dangerous. You should go back to Riverrun.”

“If we are attacked by brigands, Kingslayer, know that it is your fault.”

“And if we should happen to camp on the trail and be crushed by a rock slide, it will be your fault, wrench.” The sooner they reached the Vale and spoke with Lady Lysa the sooner he could return to his wife before she was murdered in her childhood home. Sansa had assured him that the Hound would protect her, but he doubted he would be much use against even a dozen Bolton men.

She was right not to trust the Boltons, even if he could not tell her why.

By the time Jaime had dismounted, the occupants of the other tent had stirred. A woman, dressed in ragged furs, stuck her head out of the tent flap and stared at the men. Her face was dirty, but even under that Jaime could see that she was not an Andal. She withdrew into the tent, and only minutes later two large men appeared. He had no idea why a group of clansmen would be camping so near the High Road, but he suspect he did not want to find out.

Hoping to avoid the conflict, he turned to the business of the tents and fire. They lined the tents near the impassable rocks on either side of the clearing. A rock slide might crush them all in their sleep, but he was more worried about the threat of the mountain clans. He lit the fire himself and stayed near it, watching their neighbors under the guise of seeing to the flames. 

Brienne approached as the last of the tents was set, her own squeezed between the men’s tents. He had forbidden anyone to touch her, but he would not risk her sleeping in the same tent as they did. Even so, he expected she slept with one hand on her sword. With the mountain men across the way, it was likely for the best. 

“I worry about our company,” the wrench said, as she sat beside him and selected a log to toss into the fire. 

“There are only ten of them,” he answered. He thought there might be more, but they were too far away to tell apart except by size and only eight had been outside at one time.

“Ten of them in a tent. Thousands more in these mountains, enough to trouble the Vale armies at one time.” Brienne replied. “They would not camp so close to the road unless they had a reason.”

Well, she may be ugly but she's not entirely stupid. Jaime gave her a grudging smile. 

“Scouts or outcasts, I do not know which would be worse,” he acknowledged. “We have a hundred men. If we move quickly perhaps we can escape them. They will not follow us out of the mountains.”

“The last time my father took this road he had a thousand men, and still they troubled the outskirts of our company.” Brienne said. 

“A hundred men move quicker than a thousand.”

“They have fewer swords too.”

“What do you know of swords, wrench?”

“I will be of more use in a fight than you, Kingslayer.” It was a bad idea to let himself be provoked here, in front of these wild men, where they might need all the able swords they could find. 

Jaime had never claimed to be the clever Lannister, that was Tyrion. He stood abruptly, reaching for his sword with his left hand. “Come, then.”

“Are you mad? If we show weakness to these men-”

“I will show no weakness. If you think you will, then go back to Riverrun as I said.”

Her homely face set at the insult, and she rose as well. Together they moved away from the others, between the rock face and the tents. Jaime fumbled for a moment with the hilt of his sword, but as the blade slid from the scabbard, he brought the sword around and up in a swift deadly arc. 

The practice yard had been full of men willing to dance around him while he tried out his lesser hand, but none of them had been Brienne of Tarth. Using all the skill his fights with the men of the Rock had given him, he dove at her. Brienne jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did she turn one cut than the next was upon her. The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime's blood was singing. His father’s men had been cautious around him after his loss, they had not dared harm him. The noblewoman was not so timid.

High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster . . .

. . . until, breathless he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a moment of respite. “Not half bad,” he acknowledged. “For a wench.”

She snorted, adjusting her grip on her sword, and stepped forward. Jaime took that as his cue to continue. His grip felt strange, if he’d had his sword hand he would have killed her, but even now she was no match for him. He felt his own grip shifting, whirled the blade up above his head and came at her again.

Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke. He drove her away from the light of the fire leaking between the tents, drove her across the flat ground, drove her into the rocky edges of the road. She stumbled once on a root she never saw, and for a moment he thought she was done, but she went to one knee instead of falling, and never lost a beat. Her sword leapt up to block a downcut before he could deflect it, and then she cut at him, again and again, fighting her way back to her feet stroke by stroke. 

Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped, and the woman started grunting like a sow at every crash, yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an iron cage around her that stopped every blow. 

“Not bad at all,” he said when he paused for a second to catch his breath, circling to her right.

“For a wench?”

“For a squire, say. A green one.” He laughed a ragged, breathless laugh. In the crowd that had gathered, and Jaime spared a thought that he hoped someone had been left to guard the tents, men with more breath than he and more skill than the woman laughed at her.

Grunting, she came at him, blade whirling, and suddenly it was Jaime struggling to keep steel from skin. One of her slashes raked across his brow and blood ran into his right eye. He did not wince, but she faltered for an instant and it was done. 

_ She’s stronger than I am. _

The realization chilled him. Her swings were simple, but strong, and her stamina had been enough to keep away his sword. Few men were stronger than him, but Jaime was not ashamed to admit they were. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even so . . . by rights, she should be the one wearing down.

Instead she forced him back and back, until he was the one scrambling to keep her sword away. As they came around the edge of the tents, something underfoot shifted, and he staggered. A voice broke through the men as he blocked Brienne’s downswing with his sword. “Ser Jaime!”

Alyn Marbrand was his second cousin. He stood between them and the crowd that had gathered, and when his voice broke the spell that had gathered Brienne took a step back. Jaime climbed to his feet and gasped in a breath, “What is it?”

“Another fire. You had best come see.” Jaime straightened and gathered the presence of mind to sheath his sword. The Marbrands were rarely nervous, and if Ser Alyn thought it best to interrupt a training session it would be important.

 

**IV.**

Lord Tywin sent for Sansa as they came upon Moat Cailin.

Edmure had remained in Riverrun, but sent Lord Jason Mallister in his place. As Sansa rode her dappled grey up the line, he was positioned beside Lord Maynard Serrett to overlook the men. She reined her mare in beside Tywin and he turned from his bannermen to focus on her. “The gates are closed to us. When we sent a letter in your name, we received this.”

Sansa took the offered parchment and unrolled it. It must have come on an arrow, for it was too large for a raven to have held. The words were simple, but they made her heart leap. “ ‘Greywater Watch is sworn to House Stark.’ This is Lord Reed’s seal. . .”

“We cannot cross the moat without heavy losses,” Tywin told her, as if she was only a girl and not Eddard Stark’s daughter. 

“My father always said that Lord Reed was loyal,” Sansa gave him back the parchment. “I need a white flag and a second man.”

“They may shoot you in the field,” Tywin warned her. He glanced at the squire who had been hovering beside her and he was off in an instant.

“He would not do that.” She answered, meeting his gaze. He did not truly think so, or he would not have allowed it at all. “I do not intend to die and leave my son alone in this world, Lord Tywin. Lord Reed will open the gates for me.”

They sent the squire out first, to gallop along the edge of bow range, the flag held aloft. Within the hour came an answer from the towers opposite them, a flag to match their own. It had been enough time to argue the particulars of her third man and for a cloak of white to be settled over her. By the time Lord Reed and his half dozen men rode down the narrow path, Sansa was ready to meet them.

Howland Reed was slim and short, with eyes of the deepest green Sansa had ever seen. When he halted his horse before her, he stared into her eyes and a sad smile flickered across his face. “Lady Sansa, we had despaired of ever seeing you again.”

“I have come to claim my birthright, Lord Howland.” He considered her, then. Beside her the Riverlander shifted nervously, but he paid no attention to him or to the Lannister armies behind her.

“You have more a right to Winterfell than Roose Bolton, certainly.” The tone was almost conversationalist as he nodded to the towers behind him. “He has ordered Moat Cailin closed to any southroners, and sent a host to insure his work is done. They are only days from my lands.”

“Why would he do that?” Sansa asked flatly. Tywin would never consent to establishing Jerion in the North, and by all accounts Arya was missing. There was no point in fighting Tywin Lannister when he held the last known Stark and Roose had nothing. 

“There are some who say that he intends to make himself Lord of Winterfell.” Lord Howland said. “Others. . . have a more interesting suggestion. I have heard rumor that the Umbers claim to know the location of Rickon Stark.”

Sansa’s chest clenched so sharply she thought her heart had stopped beating. “Rickon is dead. He was killed by Theon Greyjoy.”

“That is not what the Umbers are claiming.”

“If they knew Rickon was alive, they would have told Robb.” Sansa protested.

“Forgive me, Lady Sansa, but King Robb was not so well loved as your father. Neither was Lord Rickard, but some said that your brother’s southron wife was poisoning his mind. It may be that the Umbers wanted to use Rickon should your brother have proven to have more southron sympathies than they thought seemly.”

“Or that they wanted a bargaining piece, should he have not given then what the felt they deserved. Father had thought more of them than that,” Sansa admitted. 

“Or they may be lying in an effort to gain support for the Boltons,” Lord Howland offered. She did not think that was better.

Sansa fought back the tears threatening to fall at the thought of her baby brother. “Do you intend to follow Lord Bolton’s order?” She did not need to ask it, no, Lord Howland would not tell of his plans so openly if he intended to support the Boltons. This had been one of Tywin’s lessons, that the more a man said the more you knew of him.

“I have a choice between Roose Bolton and Eddard Stark’s daughter. The choice is not a difficult one, no matter my thoughts on your new house, Lady Sansa.” Lord Howland said. Beside him, his men exchanged glances, but said nothing. 

“I did not choose my fate, Lord Howland.”

“None of us do,” he answered simply, and for a moment the look in the crannogman’s eyes was so much like her father that it hurt.

 

**V.**

“I do not like this.” Ser Alyn nudged his horse closer as the path opened.

“The clearing narrows soon.” Brienne answered him, when Jaime did not. The horses could go three abreast if they wanted to risk losing men, but as it was Jaime had ordered it only be two. He did not know what had been said to her to make her decide that it was better to ride beside him than with the men, but he doubted it had been kind.

“That is what I do not like,” Alyn said. “If anyone were to attack us now, they would be as much at risk of falling to their deaths as we are. But if they chose such an opening as that, the men behind us would not be able to help those in front. Worse, if such a battle proves too much trouble rocks can handle those on the trail.”

“When we reach the field, tell the men we will be traveling quickly until the road evens out,” Jaime instructed. “The sooner we reach the other side of this pass the better.”

“Kingslayer,” the woman interrupted suddenly, “look.”

At the place where the trail narrowed again, a little campfire sat. A campfire at midday. It crackled brightly, but had only one occupant. Jaime reined his horse in as they neared. Going to the right was a risk as it was so near the edge, but the left was blocked by the man himself. He did not want to ride over him if he did not have to.

“Well met, friend,” he called amiably.

The man looked up, eyes hidden under the scruff of his hat. “Who be you?”

“I am Ser Jaime Lannister, and these are my companions.” The winding trail of men behind him was enough to suggest the power he kept. “And you?”

“I am Vern of the Painted Dogs,” as he spoke, the man stood, “and these are my companions.”

From the rocks came warriors. Some were men, some women, and he thought he saw the woman that had camped beside them the night before among them. Some wore furs and some dirty rags that had once been fine clothes, but all held weapons. Several mummered in a language he did not know, the Old Tongue, he thought, as that was what all the Mountain Clans spoke. One of the men pointed at Brienne and said something to his companion in that language, and Jaime did to need to know what he said to know what he meant. 

“Who commands here?” Jaime demanded loudly. He was stalling, he suspected they knew that, but he needed as many of his men as possible to be off the trail. Ser Alyn was gone, but the woman was clutching her sword hilt beside him. 

“We answer to Wyck, daughter of Wynn.” Vern replied. His gaze flickered to a woman whose hair was dark and filthy against her furs, her eyes rimmed in red. 

“Wyck, then. I would like to pay for our passage through your lands. I offer three hundred golden dragons.”

“If you have that much, you have more,” she replied, shifting the axe she held in her grip, “my men want horses too, and perhaps some of the fine southern swords you hold.”

Jaime did not intend to give them swords. If his men were unarmed, nothing stopped the woman from attacking them once the trade was done. Even so, he nodded slowly, “perhaps arrangements can be made?”

Behind him, a loud  _ crack _ rippled through the mountainside. He looked reflexively, and found the mountainside crumbling as a rock loosed from its place above the trail and fell. It took men and horses with it, and beyond them he could see the others panicking as the road began to give way. Jaime did not wait to see the outcome, he turned his horse toward the woman and charged.

He had not made it half way when his horse fell out from under him and he was thrown forward violently. With his sword still in his left hand, Jaime was struggling to his feet when a blow to the back of his head sent him down again. The sound of steel on steel echoed over him, and as if through a fog he saw Brienne of Tarth fighting the two men who had attacked him.

As strong as she was, it took four of them to bring her down.

 

**VI.**

Sansa could pinpoint the moment Ser Wendel recognized her. 

While Lord Tywin pursued the fleeing Dustins, Ser Daven had commanded a party to bring the Manderly men back to the camp. Perhaps he had expected Jaime or Lord Edmure, but he had not expected her. His gaze swung over her, past her, and Sansa straightened ever so slightly as Ser Daven stepped into the tent behind her and met her eyes. “Lady Sansa, Ser Wendel Manderly for you.”

Ser Wendel started. His eyes flickered over Lord Howland and the Lannister soldiers under the Stark banner and then he laughed, deep in his belly. “Lady Sansa! When Lord Rickard and his men fled at the sight of the Stark banners, I should have expected.” He paused before the table Sansa was seated at to stare at her. “You look very much like your lady mother.”

She smiled as she stood. “Well met, Ser Wendel. It has been centuries since the Manderlys and the Dustins fought. I trust you have news?”

“Roose Bolton plans to marry your mother this night. Lady Catelyn is a good woman, but her marriage to your father does not give her Bolton babes the right to Winterfell.” Ser Wendel said. Sansa wanted to close her eyes and cry, but instead she gripped the table until her knuckles turned white.

“He has no right to marry my mother. Lord Edmure has sent men to help free her. Ser Wendel, I fear that truth has been in short supply. Do you know what happened in Winterfell?”

“Lord Roose says that he and Lady Barbrey defended Winterfell from wildlings who had snuck within her walls.”

“And your lord father believes that?” Ser Wendel came nearer the table, studying the direwolf on her chest, the map spread before her, the banner they had hung behind her.

“There have been many wildlings this season, it is true, and I have heard that your brother had intended to reinforce the Wall before his death.” He looked up from the table and into her face. “My lord father sent me to find the truth in Winterfell. That Bolton’s allies would attack us before we can reach the castle does not suggest to me their innocence.”

“And everything else? My sister missing, Robb’s wife dead?”

“I fear I know nothing but was in the letter. If you have not read it, I can send for a copy?”

“I have read it.” That she had not had to steal or lie to find. Lord Tywin knew she was useless uninformed. “Tell me, Ser Wendel. Who supports Lord Bolton? Who will see a Stark in Winterfell again?”

At last Ser Wendel found his voice. “My father is with you, Lady Sansa. I was ordered to rescue Lady Arya if I found her, to bring her back to White Harbor where we could protect her. My father will see a Stark back in Winterfell.”

“White Harbor has some six thousand men, does it not?”

“Five thousand, after the war, but my father has already called his banners. If you send a raven to White Harbor, he will send them to you.”

“Five thousand.” Sansa frowned down at the map before her, recalculating. “House Reed has brought one thousand north with them.”

“House Locke and House Flint will follow my father in this. Together they can bring a thousand men to your cause.”

“The last news that came to Greywater Watch was that Bolton could field four thousand and Umber under half of that.” Lord Howland volunteered. “If Lady Barbrey has truly chosen the Boltons, she will bring her men.”

“And if Lady Dustin fights, her father would go with her.” Sansa said.

“The Dustins and the Ryswells can field four thousand.” Ser Wendel said. “The loyalties of the other great houses is less certain.”

“They were loyal to my father,” Sansa said, “they named Robb a king. They will not abandon us now.”

“. . . yes, Lady Sansa.” Ser Wendel said.

“And if they do?” Lord Howland was shorter than she was, but his eyes were sharp.

“I had hoped to keep this a Northern conflict.” Sansa straightened, hands brushing over her grey skirts. She wore wolf furs that had been expensive in Kings Landing on such short notice, heavy boots her new aunt had given her at Riverrun, thick tights she had sewn with her own hands, a direwolf embroidered across her chest in white, and a cape bearing her father’s sigil. When she stilled, Lady whined low and sat up, and in the face of the direwolf Ser Wendel froze.

Sansa stepped past them, her warm skirts trailing in her wake, and looked out of the tent to the camp beyond. “But there are fifteen thousand men here. I will have Winterfell.”

 

**VII.**

They had kept few captives.

Jaime hoped his men had escaped with their lives, but in these mountains he doubted they could go far even if they had. One of the men had taken his mare, and they had set Jaime and Brienne on her horse and tied their legs together. To his right, he could see Ser Alyn and the bloody man they had tied to him. Once again, they had taken Ser Alyn’s horse for their own. While Jaime had spent little time in the Vale, he understood that the mountain clans occasionally ransomed highborn nobles back to their families. If that was not to be their fate, he did not want to imagine why only they had been kept alive.

He did not know how far they traveled, his head throbbing in the light every time he regained his senses. His hands were bound before him, Brienne’s must have been behind her, but she managed to keep them both on the horse. At least, if they fell, he did not know. His arms ached and his legs were numb from the ropes, but it was his head which concerned him. One of his eyes had filled with blood and the only time he had felt such pain was when his hand was taken from him. This still did not compare to that.

By the time he had regained his senses it was night, and he was no longer on a horse. He shifted, groaning, and someone kicked him sharply. 

“Ser Jaime? Ser Jaime!” Ser Alyn had fostered alongside Jaime, he knew the man’s voice. When he opened his eyes it was night and the moon was only a crescent. It still hurt to look at. “You must wake up. There has been talk of leaving you.”

Jaime was tied to a tree between Brienne of Tarth and Ser Alyn, the man who might have been a Marbrand cousin on Alyn’s other side. He tried to speak, but the words would not leave him. Eventually he gave up, and stared up at the night sky. The moon was a graceful crescent, and it seemed as though he had never seen so many stars. Ser Alyn was saying something, and Brienne was growling a reply. There was a fire flickering on the edge of his consciousness.

Alyn yelped in pain, payment for his words, and Jaime’s muddied mind corrected. Not fire, shadow. Voices in that unfamiliar tongue, and then a man spoke. “A lion, a flaming tree, the moon and the sun. You are the officiers, yes?”

“There were more than only four,” Alyn said, “many of the men were of noble houses.”

“Many fell. Many others died. And some went with the other party, but you lead, and so you have come with Wyck. Tell us, what will your fathers pay for your ransom?”

“You must ask them,” Ser Alyn said.

“If you give us too low a number, Wyck will kill you now. It is not worth the trouble to drag you through the mountains, to feed you, for nothing. But if your family will not match the number you give, we will kill you then. If you do not speak, we will kill you anyway.”

Before Alyn could find his voice, Jaime managed what he thought was a smile. “My father is Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. Five hundred golden dragons, he will pay for me and for Ser Alyn. For the knight he will pay four hundred.”

“And the woman?”

Tywin would pay nothing for Brienne of Tarth. He had no use for her. “Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle, a maiden told me once." 

More discussion in the tongue that Jaime did not know. Then, from his left, came another voice. “Lord Tywin does not need to pay ransom to men such as these. He will cut them down sooner than give them gold.”

“Holden, be silent!” Alyn snapped out. He was kicked for his efforts, by the woman who had been standing back.

“Let him speak,” she said. She stepped forward to crouch beside the knight, and gripped his chin in her hand. 

He wrenched away from her. “Let go of me, cur! When Casterly Rock hears of this-”

Then he screamed. The sound made the pounding in Jaime’s head double, and when his vision cleared again the knight was bleeding. Wyck had cut him open with her blade, and let his insides pour onto the ground. Jaime did not think he was dead, but could not see well enough to know. 

“Holden!” Alyn began to struggle, and the woman turned her gaze on him.

“The rest of you will be silent. You should pray to your gods that he is wrong, and your lord sends gold. If he does not, you will share his fate” Then she was gone. Alyn whispered to his friend, but received no reply other than the high pitched whine that told Jaime he still lived. Against the burning light of the moon, Jaime closed his eyes again. 

The knight lived until morning, when his throat was cut for his inability to mount a horse. They had to beat Alyn to get him back onto the horse, but Jaime put up no struggle. They had to drag him toward the horse. There was some argument between the men holding him. At last, one dropped him to draw a blade.

“He’s Lord Tywin’s son!” Alyn’s voice sounded very far away. “If you kill him, you won’t be paid anything!”

Then his cousin screamed, but no one harmed Jaime. His world was still a distorted blur when they tied him to Brienne. He slumped forward and back, limp with the movement of the horse, his head burning.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne whispered when the sun was high above them, so faintly he thought he was dreaming it. “Jaime, what are you doing?” 

“Dying,” he whispered back. Better to die here than be slaughtered when he was too weak to be traded for gold.

“No,” she said, “no, you must live.” 

He wanted to laugh. “Stop telling me what do, wench. I’ll die if it pleases me.” 

“Are you so craven?” The words shocked him. He was Jaime Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, he was the Kingslayer. No man had ever called him craven. Other things they called him, yes; oathbreaker, liar, murderer. They said he was cruel, treacherous, reckless. But never craven. Not even Cleos on the long journey south, when he had been forced to care for Jaime because he could not leave his liege lord’s son to die.

“What else can I do, but die?” 

“Live,” she said, “live, and fight, and take revenge.” 

One of the warrior women came near, then, passing between their horse and the cavern beside them. Craven, Jaime thought, as Brienne fell silent. Can it be? Gods be good, is it true? The wench had the right of it. He could not die. Sansa was waiting for him. She would have need of him. And Tyrion, his little brother, who loved him for a lie. And his enemies were waiting too; Sansa’s enemies. He must make it back to her. He had sworn to protect her, and he could not protect her if he was dead.

When night came, he made himself eat. They fed him a mush of oats, horse food, but he forced down every spoon. Live, he told himself harshly, when the mush was like to gag him, live for Sansa, live for Tyrion. Live for vengeance. A Lannister always pays his debts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I updated, I don't know why you guys put up with me xD. I've had nearly a month of training, which I think is harder than the work itself. It's just so boring and soul draining, but I'm going to try to update more regularly. Twice a month, at least, for the longer chapters.
> 
> Anything you recognize is GRRM's, of course.


	3. Ivory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa arrives in Winterfell and encounters the Boltons. Jaime and Brienne see more of the Mountains of the Moon.

**I.**

The sight of Winterfell on the horizon made Sansa’s throat close.

Lord Tywin did not notice, for he had turned to speak to Lord Mallister, but Jeyne did. She reached up to wrap her hand around Sansa’s as she adjusted the white cloak out behind her, and Sansa squeezed back. Jeyne’s family would still be in the castle, and Sansa knew she feared for them as she feared for her mother. Gently, she arranged her hair, long and loose in the style of the North, over her hood.

Between the Lannisters, the Tullys, and the Manderlys the army numbered seventeen thousand. Sansa did not care if her mother was nine months heavy with babe; she would have her back from the Boltons this day.

As they came over the last hill to bring her home fully into view, a party of riders bearing a Bolton banner surprised them. She drew up beside Lord Tywin to wait for them, but it was not she they addressed. “Lord Tywin Lannister.” One called as he came near enough to not be forced to shout. “Lord Bolton sends his greetings. Please, come with us.”

In the courtyard - her courtyard - the Boltons were waiting as the Starks once had for Robert Baratheon. Lord Roose, his bastard, and her lady mother. Sansa dismounted without waiting for Ser Daven to halt his chestnut and crossed the yard without so much as acknowledging the Bolton lord’s presence. When she came to her mother, she looked as though she might cry, so Sansa stepped into her and Catelyn clung to her like a lifeline.

“I have missed you,” Sansa said, hoping that she sounded reassuring, and not like she was breaking into a thousand pieces. She swallowed and spoke past the emotion, keeping her voice as level as Cersei's when she saw Myrcella off to Dorne. If that made her sound angry, she did not care. “Uncle Edmure summons you to Riverrun, but I had hoped you might return to the Rock with me afterwards and meet my son.”

Lord Tywin had paused to give one of his men instructions, to give her time to sort out the Boltons, and Lord Bolton had no one to speak at save her. “Lady Sansa, I fear you missed the news. Not two nights ago Lady Catelyn and I were wed.”

“Impossible.” Sansa frowned at him, pulled away from her mother’s grasp. Catelyn’s hands remained tight on her arms. “My mother is a Tully. She cannot marry without her liege lord’s permission, and Lord Edmure has not given it. He has sent Lord Jason to bring her to Riverrun.”

When she motioned to Lord Jason, Lord Bolton hesitated, then fixed her with his cold, pale eyes. “I fear the marriage has been consummated.”

“Then you must pay the proper price to Lord Edmure for sullying his sister, for she was not yours to marry.” Sansa slid her arm through Catelyn’s. Her mother did not move until Sansa pulled. “I am sure that Lord Jason will know what his lord will expect. I fear I cannot help, I am not a Riverlord. I am a Stark of Winterfell. We thank you for holding the castle for us while I was away.”

It took Sansa a moment to find someone she recognized among the Bolton men, and it concerned her. “Where are my brother’s men?”

“In the dungeons,” her mother said. Sansa paused to look at her. She wore a pink dress, with a high neck and long sleeves. They must be rid of that, she could not wear Bolton colors.

Before Sansa could speak, Lord Bolton’s bastard spoke. “They objected to my father’s wedding rather violently.”

“I am certain they were only trying to warn him- Ramsay Snow, is it?” He bristled at his name in a way that Jon had never done, and Sansa smiled as sweetly as Queen Margaery did. “I do not expect a bastard to understand, but it is improper to attempt a wedding without the permission of the woman’s lord.”

Neither Bolton had an answer at present, and she did not want to wait for them to counter. Grey skirts twisting at the movement, Sansa turned to where the Lannisters waited. “Ser Daven, could you aid some of my men in removing these Bolton banners and replacing them with the Stark ones I have brought with me? I would not want to confuse the small folk now that a Stark has returned to Winterfell.

“Lord Tywin, please come inside. I am certain that Lord Bolton kept the guest rooms ready for our arrival. Which side of the tower did you take, Lord Bolton? I believe it would be best if they took the other side.”

Lord Bolton blinked at her, face showing none of his concern, but his calm gave his bastard the ability to speak first. “My father has taken the lord’s room.”

Sansa did not think she could mimic Margaery’s smile as well as she would like, but she forced cheer into her tone. “Under such circumstances as taking back the castle, I can understand the temporary need. I will have the maids move your things to the eastern side of the tower, Lord Bolton. Even so, Lord Tywin, please.”

As they passed under the great doorway, Catelyn’s grip tightened on her arm. “Sansa, what are you doing?”

“I am taking you up to your quarters so that you can sit with my ladies while I insure that unfamiliar hands did not make mistakes.” She willed her mother to understand, but Catelyn only looked more confused.

“You cannot give Winterfell to the Lannisters!” Tywin was too near to the clamor of the courtyard to hear, but Sansa hushed her mother even so.

“You would sooner it go to the Boltons?” Sansa shook her head solemnly. “No, father’s blood will sit in Winterfell, and if the child is blond and green eyed then so be it.”

 

**II.**

It had become routine.

Jaime woke every morning too lightheaded to stand, was dragged to a horse, and was tied to either Brienne or Alyn. They would insure he did not fall as they descended into the cavernous mountainside. As they went, the warriors of the tribe would gather what they pleased from what had been his army. Gold and jewels and swords, free for the taking from the bodies broken on the rocks far below the main trail. Often the light of the sun sent him into unconsciousness. As night fell, they were fed gruel and tied to trees. Jaime knew his companions must be near freezing in the cold night, but it was the only time he could think without his head spinning from the wound. Alyn had told him it looked as though half his skull was caved in, but the woman had assured him that it was only the blood that made it look so. It was not assuring.

Alyn looked more wild every day after his cousin’s death, and only the promise of gold kept the wild men from gutting him now. They bound him hand and foot now, and fed him less than Jaime or Brienne. Every night he writhed in his bonds until he exhausted himself and fell asleep, and every night Jaime closed his eyes and pretended to sleep until his cousin stopped moving. Even if Alyn did get free, the guards would be on him in an instant. They did not so much as speak among themselves while he fought.

Brienne was always bound beside him. Unlike Ser Alyn, she lay there in her bonds like a big dead cow, saying not a word. The wench had built a fortress inside herself, preventing her from going mad as Alyn was. Jaime did not know if it was his walls, or merely his inability to focus on anything. He could walk now, but his mind was scattered.

When they finally came, three of them, Alyn was already long asleep. One was missing an ear, a great bear of a man who looked as though he had been fighting out of his crib. Another wore armor from one of the knights they had killed, ill fitting but strong. The third was slighter than his companions, but more talkative. He shrunk from them, but was happy to speak over them. That one had more Andal blood, Jaime thought, but he was no more likely to help them than the rest.

The larger men were arguing about who would go first as they approached; there seemed to be no question that the Andal would be going last. While they were cursing one another, he leaned closer to the woman.  “Wench, let them have the meat, and you go far away. It will be over quicker, and they’ll get less pleasure from it.”

“They’ll get no pleasure from what I’ll give them,” she whispered back, defiant.

Stupid stubborn brave bitch. She was going to get herself good and killed, he knew it. And what did he care if she did? She was the reason he was here, the reason his father sent him on a fool’s mission with too few men and too many orders, the reason Sansa was alone in Winterfell with the Boltons.

Yet he heard himself whisper, “Let them do it, and go away inside.” That was what he’d done, when the Starks had died before him, Lord Rickard cooking in his armor while his son Brandon strangled himself trying to save him. “Think of Renly, if you loved him. Think of Tarth, mountains and seas, pools, waterfalls, whatever you have on your Sapphire Isle, think...”

But the earless man had won the argument by then. “You’re the ugliest woman I ever seen,” he told Brienne, in broken Common, “but don’t think I can’t make you uglier. One scream out you, I’ll pull your fucking teeth out one by one.”

“Oh, do it,” laughed the smaller man. His Common was no better than that of his companions, but he was trying to make Brienne afraid. “It is not as if she will need them to eat the horse-feed.”

Jaime chuckled as the earless man stepped toward them. He reached for Brienne’s face, a blade held out to cut her from the tree. “I admit, that’s funny. I have a riddle for you, then. Why do you care if she screams? Oh, wait, I know.” He shouted, “SAPPHIRES,” as loudly as he could.

Two men appeared from the nearest tents and rushed toward them, confused to find only their own men. They began to argue loudly in the Old Tongue, the men who had thought to attack Brienne clustering together as more guards arrived. One man, taller than even the armour thief, stepped into the center of the clearing with them and made as if to grasp the smallest of the three attackers. With such speed that Jaime did not at first realize what had happened, the Andal drew a blade from his furs and drove it into the belly of the newcomer.

As he staggered back, the clan was in an uproar, and Jaime watched as Wyck came down the path, drawn by the noise. The crowd parted for her, and as she neared she shouted. Most of the clan quieted, but the earless man drew a sword and started for her. She drew her own blade and the clan scattered to give them room.

No one was paying attention to Brienne anymore.

Not even Jaime, not until she grabbed the ropes about his chest with one hand and cut them. Then she cut his arms free, and shoved him toward the brush so sharply that he staggered. While he was regaining his bearings, she cut Alyn free as well and began nearly dragging him after them. Once he was on his feet, they made their way through the forest in a vaguely uphill direction.

Somewhere behind them the clan was shouting as they surrounded the combatants. The noise covered their scramble through the brush. Jaime’s head was still swimming, but Brienne seemed to know where they were going. When they came out of the thick brush, they stumbled into the wide trail where the horses were kept. A guard startled, opened his mouth to shout as he scrambled to his feet, but Ser Alyn was quicker. He struck the man’s head and ripped his sword from him as he staggered.

Brienne cut the horses free as Jaime regained his bearings. When she pressed the reins of a black colt into his hands she stopped to stare at him. “Can you ride?”

He jerked the leather from her hands and threw himself in the saddle, nearly falling off the other side. They had long since taken his golden hand, leaving him with a useless stump, but he wrapped the reins around his forearm and used his hand to cling to the saddle. It did not matter. Only poor riders needed reins to guide their mount.

The woman had cut all the horses loose before mounting her own, and when she turned her mare up the trail they followed. Jaime’s colt followed on instinct, and when Ser Alyn found him in the herd he stared as he guided his mare beside Jaime. Eyes wild, he leaned closer to his cousin. “They will come soon. When they do, give your horse his head. He knows the trail well enough to get you back to the main path.”

“What?” Jaime’s arm hurt. He was gripping the saddle too tightly and leaning heavily to one side, but once his cousin’s words filtered into meaning he sat up quickly. His body protested violently. “Alyn, you cannot fight the entire clan.”

“They killed Aryn.”

“They will kill _you_.”

“Not before I kill that bitch.” Ser Alyn looked back. Jaime followed his head on reflex and realized that torchlight flickered through the trees. He could not think, could not follow the movement of the horse, could not see the trail itself. Had they neared the top? He only remembered leaving the trail . . .

The next thing Jaime knew was the startling of his horse. Ser Alyn’s stolen sword whistled as it slapped the horse’s flank and sent them haring forward. He lasted five strides. Then he lost his grip on the saddle, slid sideways, and was dragged on before his arm came free. When he regained sight, he was on the ground. Jaime looked up in time to watch Ser Alyn leap from his mare’s back into the warrior across from him. The other warriors in the party had not stopped to watch, but headed straight for him. They were interrupted by a shout.

Jaime turned his head as if underwater. The rider lifted the sword she had gained sometime between their escape and Jaime’s fall. Brienne of Tarth had come back. Sweat had stuck strands of her flax-colored hair to her forehead, and her grimace made her look homelier than ever as she charged. Seven, Jaime’s mind provided through the fog. She had no chance against seven. She should have run.

He could not follow the crash of swords. Steel met steel, singing in the cold night air. The primal part of Jaime’s brain drove him to his feet, up the thinning trail, away from the danger. He stood undecided on the place where the forest met the uphill slant. If he turned into the brush perhaps he could evade them until they moved on, if he turned uphill perhaps he could find one of the fleeing horses.

A scream broke through his spinning head. He staggered two steps forward and turned to look. Ser Alyn had driven his dagger through Wyck’s chest, and when the clansmen saw this they paused. The knight let her fall. One of the warriors turned on him with a cry, leaving Brienne with one less opponent. Shouting, the knight met his new enemy, cut him down, and rushed to the woman’s aid.

There were only six of them now, no, four, Brienne had done well in that. In a daze, Jaime took a step toward the battle. They needed his help. He searched the road for a sword, but found nothing. Just when he was about to stagger into the battle to find one, hands gripped his arm.

Brienne of Tarth stared down at him as she kicked her foot from the stirrup. “Come on!”

The woods were alive with shouting. Where was his cousin?

“No. . . I must- go without me.” He decided at last.

The woman wrapped her arm around his and dragged him toward the horse. With her grip on his bad arm, he had little choice. “We will never make the road. They will catch us and kill me and rape you.”

"You are under my protection," she said, her voice so thick with anger that it was almost a growl. “They will have to kill me first.”

She had gotten him on the horse. He wrapped his arms around her waist in his daze, gripping his forearm with his hand as she kicked the horse into a gallop.

“Why did you come back?” The words escaped before he knew he had thought them. “Stupid woman, you could have died for men you hate.”

“It was my duty.” She grunted, kicking the horse again.

Jaime laughed.

 

**III.**

“We should wait for more guards.” Sandor said, but Sansa had already unlatched the heavy door. It swung open slowly, revealing the empty corridor, and she stepped down onto the stone. Lady follow, and once the direwolf was inside Sandor could hardly not follow. The dungeons were dark and cold, but Sansa descended without hesitation. Her grey skirts brushed against the muddy walls, the torches flickering low, but she did not pause.

As she came to the bottom, a man in the first cell roused himself. When she looked it was a familiar face, one of the stable boys. He was unharmed, but thin. Recognition flickered across his eyes and he turned to his cell mates mummering. On the other side of the corridor men were rousing themselves as well. The silence fell to sharp whispers which built to a hum only to stop when a cry sounded deeper in the cells.

Sansa paused.

Behind her, Sandor’s hand lingered on his sword hilt, but he said nothing as they started forward again. It was not hard to find the source of the noise, Winterfell had no use for extensive dungeons. A well-dressed man lingered toward the end of the second hall to the left with a pack of hounds. When he heard her footsteps he looked up, and it took Sansa a moment to realized what she was seeing. A body was strapped to a wooden construct in the center of the room, and Bolton’s bastard was bloody.

“Flaying is banned in the North,” she informed him. His smirk unsettled her, but she did not flinch as he turned to face her fully.

“Lady Catelyn’s precious daughter. I thought you were busy in the castle.”

“I am the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard, the Lady of Winterfell, and flaying is banned in the North.” Lady stepped past the Hound to look up at her. The bastard’s eyes lingered on her pale fur for a moment as he laughed.

“Beth and I were only getting to know each other,” he assured her. The name made Sansa’s spine chill and her vision blur, “my father always says that a man has no secrets without his skin.”

“I’ll see you hanged.” The words tumbled from her mouth before she could check them, and she could hear Lady’s snarl before she registered what she had said.

“Oh, I doubt that. My father is very fond of me.” The bastard boy whistled low, and the hounds which had been laying beside him growled as they rose. Steel-on-steel filled the air as Sandor went for his sword, but Lady was a step faster. Before the hounds could reach Sansa, the direwolf reached them. The first was missing her throat before she knew she had been stopped. The smaller of the other two flinched violently away from Lady, recognizing her for the wolf she was, but by then it was far too late. Fangs bared, Lady tore into her shoulder, knocking the hound aside with her weight. Ramsay stepped forward, hold a dagger high, but Sandor went to meet him.

The last and largest of the hounds had avoided Lady’s strike and barreled straight for Sansa. Even at her size, one of the largest dogs Sansa had ever seen, Knight was half again as big. The cub had hung back when they entered the underground rooms, but his roar was deafening in the confined area. The dog faltered, and Knight batted at her with one massive paw. She lay where she fell, neck broken. The cub would have helped Lady, but when he turned her prey was dead as well.

“Lit- Lady Sansa.” Sandor ground out, from where he stood above Ramsay Snow. “Do you want him dead?”

“You cannot kill me.” Even flat on the floor with Sandor’s blade at his throat he was grinning. “My father will not let you.” His gaze raked down Sansa’s front, his grin widening.

It was one of Joffrey’s smiles that slid onto her face, one she had not practiced in her mirror, one she had not wanted. It felt wrong on her lips, but she had come to far to flinch now. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home, and you cannot frighten me.”

She stepped past Sandor to take the keys from the hook on the wall and unlocked the first cell. Once the battered men-at-arms had filed past her, several hanging back despite being thin and ragged, she looked up at Sandor.

“This will hold him until I speak with his _father_.” Lord Tywin, she meant, but she knew better than to say that here. Perhaps he was correct and his father did not care what he did, but Tywin knew better than to trust a madman who flayed noblewomen. There were enough guards in his army to make sure Ramsay Snow stayed in a cell.

 

**IV.**

When Jaime woke again he was lying on a blanket which smelt of horse.

He sat up slowly and found himself looking at the wench in the cold of the early morning. There were no ropes and no shouting clansmen. It had not been a dream. “Where are we?”

“Be quiet! They are still searching for us.” At Jaime’s baleful look, she added. “We are nearer the Bloody Gate than we had thought.” Her armor looked as filthy as Jaime felt, but when she reached over to rummage in the saddle beside her he lurched forward to grasp the little cakes she produced. The owner of the horse had carried cakes of dried deer and berries, which would last years.

As he finished his third, Jaime lowered his voice. “How far are we?”

“A day’s ride, at most. They were moving east once we reached the bottom of the canyon and we did not realize it. If we push the horse, we might make it by nightfall.”

“But if they catch us on a tired horse we are lost.” Jaime’s hair stuck to his skin in thick strands. He had no sword and no energy, and doubted his use in battle.

Brienne nodded. “If they catch us asleep, we are lost as well.”

“It is easier to hide when we are not moving.”

“We have little food and less water. I do not know these mountains well enough to find a stream, what are we to do?”

They sat in silence. Neither wanted to risk the horse’s legs on the trail in the darkness, in that, at least, they agreed. Having eaten proper food, Jaime was beginning to think again. “Why did you turn back? You could have escaped with a fresh horse and no burden, stupid woman. Your kindness will be the death of you.”

“I had to try.”

“You could have died, wench.”

“I could have died. A true knight is sworn to protect those who are weaker than himself, or die in the attempt.”

“And I am weaker than you?” Jaime scoffed.

“You nearly fell off of my horse three times before we were far enough away to stop.” The woman said. “Lady Sansa asked you to accompany me to the Eyrie and seek her sister. You were under my protection.”

“You are a fool, wench.” Jaime said. Something inside his broken head cried: _You're hurting me. You're hurting me._ He had not heard that voice in many years. “There are no true knights.”

“ _You_ are not a true knight.” Brienne grunted, pushing her thin hair away from her face. “You served with a great many of them, and you should not insult them.”

“I suppose you mean the Kingsguard?” Jaime laughed at her, quieter than he would have if they were not hunted. “Which of them were true knights, wench? Joffrey’s men, who beat my wife?”

“Ser Gerold Hightower or Ser Arthur Dayne, were they not true knights?” She challenged, face flushing. The color only made her uglier.

“Ser Gerold, Ser Arthur, and Ser Oswell all died guarding Prince Rhaegar’s kidnapped mistress. Died to keep a woman somewhere she did not want to be. Are those your true knights?” Jaime knew the bitterness in his voice would be mistaken for anger at her, and not at his sworn brothers. Elia Martell and Rhaegar’s heirs had died for lack of protection, and then his brothers had died for the woman who started the war.

“How can you still count yourself a knight, when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?” The woman demanded, seemingly choosing to ignore the matter of the Kingsguard turning into kidnappers.

“So many vows...they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It’s too much. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking one vow or the other.” Jaime bit into another of the cakes, hoping that would soothe the last of his headache. “I was the youngest man ever to wear the white cloak.”

“And the youngest to betray all it stood for, Kingslayer.”

“And such a king he was! Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” Jaime stood, reached for the blanket he had been lying on. “I can still hear Rickard Stark screaming as he was roasted alive.”

“You lie.”

“Why would I lie? What do I gain?”

“Men like you always lie.”

“There are no men like me.”

 

**V.**

Sansa gently closed the door behind her and padded over to the highest shelf in the room, where the scrolls she carried would be safe.

They had been in the deepest levels of the library, hidden from curious eyes behind locked doors, but she was the Lady of Winterfell now and all within it belonged to her. There was more magic in the old gods than blood sacrifices could unlock and more to the wild things that followed obediently at her heels than love for one who raised them. The words lingered on her tongue; _skinchanger, warg, greenseer_. She would have all the secrets the godswood offered, all and more.

When the scrolls were safe, she finally allowed herself to relax. Here, in her chambers, with her ladies and her mother, nothing would hurt her. Catelyn had removed the bright pink dress they had given her, dressed in the dark blue of a Tully-Stark instead and draped a black scarf around her neck to signify her mourning. Her hair was braided tight against the back of her head, a Riverlands style, as she tried to mark herself a Tully.

Sansa wanted to cry.

Her mother started at the sight of the lion at her heels, but Sansa would have time to explain that later. She crossed the floor in quick steps. Before she had been forced to close the thoughts away, to ignore that she had been to late to save her mother from the sham of a marriage, but now she could not stop them. Sansa stopped before reaching her, more frightened than she had been since she lost her baby. “Mother, please, are you well?”

Catelyn stood, brushed her skirts down firmly, and crossed the room to hug her. “My sweet girl. I am so sorry we could not bring you home.”

“That is not your fault.” She pressed her mother away to look her in the face, clung to her shoulders like she might leave if Sansa let go. “What has happened here?”

Catelyn closed her eyes for a moment, to breath deeply. “It started when Robb was still alive. There were too few men left behind when we went south, and fields began to rot. When we returned, the wildling attacks began. The lords asked for men, but with Winterfell in ruins. . . we had none to give. Bolton began sending men to those who asked. It was dangerous to House Stark, but we had no men to send.”

“Robb did not order other lords to send men?”

“He felt that commanding the other lords to have their small folk leave their fields to work for others was ill done. Instead we arranged a marriage contract between Arya and Lord Bolton. It was meant to bind the Boltons to us.”

It would not have done that, but her family could not have known. If Sansa had not read it in Lord Tywin’s own writing she would not have believed that one of her father’s bannermen could plan so ill a scheme. Sansa could not say that. If someone heard it would put her entire plan in danger. “Arya refused.”

“Had Arya refused, we might have convinced her. Or at least set guards on her.” Catelyn shook her head slowly. “No, just before the wedding she stole a horse and fled south. I do not even know if she is alive. How could she have done this?”

Arya was headstrong and willful, and Sansa loved her sister for refusing to be sold as she had been. It was not proper and it would lead to sorrow, but Sansa could not place the blame at Arya’s feet. She could say none of this. Instead she opened her mouth to comfort her mother, but Obella spoke first.

“I do not know your daughter, but if my father tried to sell me to a man old enough to be my grandfather, I would have fled too.”

“You are a Dornish bastard, what would you know of a highborn girl’s marriage?”

Sansa caught her mother’s shoulder before she could fully turn. “Obella, forgive my mother. She has lost much. Mother, please, Arya was always wild, even father knew such. I have news of her.”

Catelyn’s fury faded instantly. “What news?”

Voice low, Sansa spoke so only her mother could hear. “She was sighted in the Riverlands with the Hound as a companion. He says she rode on when he was captured. Their destination was the Rock, but he believes that she intended to turn for the Vale or Riverrun when she lost him.”

“And you believe this? The Hound is a Lannister man.”

“He is a Stark man, mother.”

“After all he did? Only Tywin Lannister would want Arya gone when her marriage would have created peace!”

“Peace? You think that once he had a Stark to give him sons he would have given up? No, mother, listen to me. He would have tried to seat Arya’s sons in Winterfell.” 

“Lord Bolton-”

“Married his liege lord’s widow against her will and against her lord’s will in an effort to take Winterfell for himself. He is not a good man, Mother.” Catelyn seemed to fold in on herself at that.

“I was trying, Sansa. I did not mean. . .”

“Oh, mother, I do not think you had any way of knowing that Roose Bolton would never keep his word. This is his fault, not yours.” The words sounded better from Jaime’s tongue, Sansa thought, but she pressed on. “You must not blame yourself. The Hound said that Arya was safe and strong when he last saw her. We must hold out hope.”

“And under what pressure did the Hound tell you this?”

“He is my sworn shield.”

“ _What?_ Sansa, you cannot mean that you trust him.”

“With my life. He was the only person in Kings Landing to help me when Joffrey stripped me before the court and had his Kingsguard strike me. The only person to give me advice that was not to keep my mouth shut. The only person who truly helped me.” It was best not to spring Tyrion and Jaime on her mother, she thought. One surprise at a time. “He said that Arya was in the Riverlands and I believe him.”

“Sansa.” She was not expecting the hug. Sansa almost fell apart. Jaime had been furious at her mistreatment, but he had known of it. So had Tyrion, when he saved her from the kings wrath. She had thought everyone knew. “I am so sorry. I wanted to trade the Kingslayer for you, I tried. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, mother. That was Joffrey’s fault, not yours.”

“I told your father that you had to marry him, that the king would be angry if we refused him!”

“You did not know.” Sansa squeezed her hands tightly. “You could not know.”

“We married you to a man who- who slept with his own sister, Sansa. We knew that! He is not worthy to look at you! The girl who claims the throne that Tywin Lannister sits on is fathered by a bastard born of incest!”

Sansa shushed her quickly. “Mother, peace. Robb renounced those claims.”

“That does not mean they were not true.”

“Jaime is father to my son.” Sansa held her mother’s gaze and pleaded with her to understand. “My son, who shall be Lord of Casterly Rock in time. He will be father to the son who sits in Winterfell as well. You are Lord Eddard Stark’s widow. If you say such things about him, who will respect my son?”

“I have given Winterfell to the Lannisters.” She thought her mother might cry, and if she did then Sansa would as well.

“My son will be of Father’s blood, of Stark’s blood, he will bear the Stark name.”

“The North will never accept a southron son.”

“He will be raised in Winterfell the moment he can leave me. I will give my babe up to protect the North, mother, to be raised by a castellan within these walls. The North will follow him.” 

“The servants think that you mean to leave a Lannister to control Winterfell.” Jeyne said, when Catelyn did not answer. “They fear that your rule will be Lord Tywin’s rule.”

“There is to be a feast tonight.” Sansa had to dress and check in on the kitchens still. “I will tell them then what I intend.”

“It will be good for everyone to hear from you.” Jeyne agreed.

“Forgive me, Jeyne, is your mother safe?” In all the excitement, Sansa had nearly forgotten. The maester had told her of the worst injuries, but they were favored in that there were few. Beth and a few of the guards, but Sansa suspected that it was quick death and not kind treatment that saw so few injuries.

“Thin, but safe. Most of the castle was, but they worry for Beth Cassel.”

“Beth is badly injured, but the maester says that she will live. She has not spoken yet, but I will visit her on the morrow to ask what she saw.” Sansa frowned. “Unless. . . mother, do you know what happened?”

“Beth was one of Jeyne Westerling’s great friends. She must have been with her that night, and I was locked in the solar. Lyra Mormont might know, if she can be found.”

“She is dead.” Jeyne supplied. “My mother told me that she fought to help Lady Jeyne escape and was killed. The men were forced to bury her with the others the _wildlings_ killed. Sansa, is anything to be done about that?”

“Lord Tywin feels that it is improbable that the Boltons attacked their liege lords. Forgive me, Jeyne, there is nothing I can do. If anyone has a specific grievance, send them to me. I will do what I can.”

“You cannot control what Lord Tywin does.” Obella said. The girl was dressed in the flaming orange of House Martell, hiding her pride under her father’s colors. “There is nothing to be forgiven.”

“The Boltons attacked us?” Catelyn looked sharply from Sansa to Jeyne, nearly talking over Obella.

“Some believe that Roose Bolton attacked Winterfell and is blaming it on the wildlings.” Sansa supplied. She had hoped to escape this discussion, but perhaps that was too much to hope. During the journey north, Sansa had taken time consider what she could tell her mother. Most of it would make it's way back to Riverrun or into Winterfell's gossip. Sansa loved her mother dearly, but would keep her own secrets.

Sansa had been sent to Kings Landing with no political training, and the knowledge that she had been ordered to marry the Crown Prince with none of the training that a queen would need did not sit well with her. Even the son that was meant for Winterfell would know more than she had when he left her side.

“Why- who says these things?”

“The small folk, the Manderly men. Ramsay Snow’s torture of a trueborn daughter.” The letter in Tyrion’s desk, Lord Tywin’s seclusion of Lord Bolton in his tent when they arrived. “We can do nothing.”

“Nothing? If this is true-”

“Lord Tywin will not support the execution of Lord Bolton.”

“We are Starks! We do not need the support of the Lannisters!”

“We do when there are so few Northernmen remaining that it gave them reason to rebel against Robb.” Sansa had already sent ravens demanding that each great house come to bend the knee to her. Some part of her prayed the Umbers did not, for if they truly had her baby brother she would tear their castle stone from stone with Lannister blood.

Catelyn sank back into a chair. “And what has Tywin Lannister decided is to be done with me?”

“We will visit Riverrun on our way south. If you wish to remain there, you may.” Sansa inhaled sharply and looked down to her mother. “However, if you wish you may also continue on with me. I have a son with Tully hair and the sweetest smile, and I will have daughters who will marry high lords and sons who will be true knights. If you wish, you may come with me and meet them.”

“Be a prisoner in the Rock instead of in Winterfell?”

“There are some things that cannot be changed, mother.” Sansa told her, more gently than she felt. “I cannot go freely from the Rock as I please. But you are a Tully of Riverrun and you could leave to return to your liege lord. Please, think on it.”

“My dear girl.” Her mother hugged her again, tightly. Each time she did so Sansa nearly cried. She had missed her mother, all this time, missed her during Jerion’s birth and during her wedding. “I am sorry.” Sansa hugged her back.

Yet it did not escape her notice that lively Roslin had said nothing since she entered the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, a chapter in a reasonable amount of time! Again, I've used a few direct quotes, so if you recognize anything, it's likely GRRM's.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments on the last chapter, guys! I've replied to all of them (I think) and I always appreciate them!


End file.
